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This remarkable and monumental book at last provides a comprehensive answer to the age-old riddle of whether there are only a small number of 'basic stories' in the world. Using a wealth of examples, from ancient myths and folk tales via the plays and novels of great literature to the popular movies and TV soap operas of today, it shows that there are seven archetypal themes which recur throughout every kind of storytelling. But this is only the prelude to an investigation into how and why we are 'programmed' to imagine stories in these ways, and how they relate to the inmost patterns of human psychology. Drawing on a vast array of examples, from Proust to detective stories, from the Marquis de Sade to E.T., Christopher Booker then leads us through the extraordinary changes in the nature of storytelling over the past 200 years, and why so many stories have 'lost the plot' by losing touch with their underlying archetypal purpose.Booker analyses why evolution has given us the need to tell stories and illustrates how storytelling has provided a uniquely revealing mirror to mankind's psychological development over the past 5000 years.This seminal book opens up in an entirely new way our understanding of the real purpose storytelling plays in our lives, and will be a talking point for years to come.

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Introduction and Historical Notes

‘He had likewise projected, but at what part of his life is not known, a work to show how small a quantity of REAL FICTION there is in the world; and that the same images, with very little variation, have served all the authors who have ever written.’

Dr Samuel Johnson, recorded in Boswell’s Life of Johnson

In the mid-1970s queues formed outside cinemas all over the Western world to see one of the most dramatic horror films ever made. Steven Spielberg’s Jaws, which heralded the arrival of the most successful popular storyteller of the late-twentieth century, told how the peace of a little Long Island seaside resort, Amity, was rudely shattered by the arrival offshore of a monstrous shark, of almost supernatural power. For weeks on end the citizens are thrown into a stew of fear and confusion by the shark’s savage attacks on one victim after another. Finally, when the sense of threat seems almost too much to bear, the hero of the story, the local police chief Brody, sets out with two companions to do battle with the monster. There is a tremendous climactic fight, with much severing of limbs and threshing about underwater, until at last the shark is slain. The community comes together in universal jubilation. The great threat has been lifted. Life in Amity can begin again.

It is safe to assume that few of the millions of sophisticated twentieth-century moviegoers who were gripped by this tale as it unfolded from the screens of a thousand luxury cinemas would have paused to think they had much in common with an unkempt bunch of animal-skinned Saxon warriors, huddled round the fire of some draughty, wattle-and-daub hall 1200 years before, as they listened to the minstrel chanting out the verses of an epic poem.

Yet just consider the story of that ancient poem which has survived to our own day mainly to be dissected in examination rooms by generations of bored and baffled students of Anglo-Saxon literature.

The first part of Beowulf tells of how the peace of the little seaside community of Heorot is rudely shattered by the arrival of Grendel, a monster of almost supernatural power, who lives in the depths of a nearby lake. The inhabitants of Heorot are thrown into a stew of fear and confusion as, night after night, Grendel makes his mysterious attacks on the hall in which they sleep, seizing one victim after another and tearing them to pieces. Finally, when the sense of threat seems almost too much to bear, the hero Beowulf sets out to do battle, first with Grendel, then with his even more terrible monster mother. There is a tremendous climactic fight, with much severing of limbs and threshing about underwater, until at last both monsters are slain. The community comes together in jubilation. The great threat has been lifted. Life in Heorot can begin again.

In terms of the bare outlines of their plots, the resemblances between the twentieth-century horror film and the eighth-century epic are so striking that they may almost be regarded as telling the same story. Are we to assume that the author of Jaws, Peter Benchley, had in some way been influenced by Beowulf ? Of course not. Even if he had read Beowulf, it is most unlikely that he could have conceived a story with the power of Jaws unless it had emerged spontaneously into his own imagination. Yet the fact remains that the two stories share a remarkably similar pattern – one which moreover has formed the basis for countless other stories in the literature of mankind, at many different times and all over the world.

So what is the explanation?

It is a curious characteristic of our modern civilisation that, whereas we are prepared to devote untold physical and mental resources to reaching out into the furthest recesses of the galaxy, or to delving into the most delicate mysteries of the atom – in an attempt, as we like to think, to plumb every last secret of the universe – one of the greatest and most important mysteries is lying so close beneath our noses that we scarcely even recognise it to be a mystery at all.

At any given moment, all over the world, hundreds of millions of people will be engaged in what is one of the most familiar of all forms of human activity. In one way or another they will have their attention focused on one of those strange sequences of mental images which we call a story.

We spend a phenomenal amount of our lives following stories: telling them; listening to them; reading them; watching them being acted out on the television screen or in films or on a stage. They are far and away one of the most important features of our everyday existence.

Not only do fictional stories play such a significant role in our lives, as novels or plays, films or operas, comic strips or TV ‘soaps’. Through newspapers or television, our news is presented to us in the form of ‘stories’. Our history books are largely made up of stories. Even much of our conversation is taken up with recounting the events of everyday life in the form of stories. These structured sequences of imagery are in fact the most natural way we know to describe almost everything which happens in our lives.

But it is obviously in their fictional form that we most usually think of stories. So deep and so instinctive is our need for them that, as small children, we have no sooner learned to speak than we begin demanding to be told stories, as evidence of an appetite likely to continue to our dying day. So central a part have stories played in every society in history that we take it for granted that the great storytellers, such as Homer or Shakespeare, should be among the most famous people who ever lived. In modern times we have not thought it odd that certain men and women, such as Charlie Chaplin or Marilyn Monroe, should come to be regarded as among the best-known figures in the world, simply because they acted out the characters from stories on the cinema screen. Even when we look out from our own world into space, we find we have named many of the most conspicuous heavenly bodies – Venus, Mars, Jupiter, Orion, Perseus, Andromeda – after characters from stories.

Yet what is astonishing is how incurious we are as to why we indulge in this strange form of activity. What real purpose does it serve? So much do we take our need to tell stories for granted that such questions scarcely even occur to us.¹

In fact what we are looking at here is really one mystery built upon another, because our passion for storytelling begins from another faculty which is itself so much part of our lives that we fail to see just how strange it is: our ability to ‘imagine’, to bring up to our conscious perception the images of things which are not actually in front of our eyes.

If someone says to us ‘the Matterhorn’... or ‘a zebra’... or ‘your kitchen table at home’... or ‘a dragon breathing fire’... something very peculiar happens. Somewhere inside our heads, the words can trigger off a mental picture of each of these things. No one knows exactly where or how that image is produced or perceived. But we have this capacity to conjure up the inward images not only of places, people and things not present to our physical senses, but even of things, such as that fire-breathing dragon, which have never existed physically at all.

And it is of course this ability to conjure up whole sequences of such images, unfolding before our inner eye like a film, which enables us to have dreams when we sleep, and when we are awake to focus our attention on these mental patterns we call stories.

What this book sets out to show is that the making of these patterns serves a far deeper and more significant purpose in our lives than we have realised: indeed one whose importance can scarcely be exaggerated. And the first crucial step towards bringing this into view is to recognise that, wherever men and women have told stories, all over the world, the stories emerging to their imaginations have tended to take shape in remarkably similar ways.

We are all familiar with the teasing notion that there may be ‘only seven (or six, or five) basic stories in the world’. It is tantalising not least because, even though this suggestion has not infrequently been put forward in print, its authors never seem to carry it further by explaining just what those stories might be. But it is now more than 30 years since I began to realise that there might seriously be some truth in this idea.

While writing a book on a quite different subject, I found my attention focusing on a small number of particular stories. They included a Shakespeare play, Macbeth; Vladimir Nabokov’s novel Lolita; a 1960s French film, Truffaut’s Jules et Jim; the Greek myth of Icarus; and the German legend of Faust. On the face of it, these stories might not seem to have much in common. But what haunted me was the way that, at a deeper level, they all seemed to unfold round the same general pattern. Each begins with a hero, or heroes, in some way unfulfilled. The mood at the beginning of the story is one of anticipation, as the hero seems to be standing on the edge of some great adventure or experience. In each case he finds a focus for his ambitions or desires, and for a time seems to enjoy almost dream-like success. Macbeth becomes king; Humbert embarks on his affair with the bewitching Lolita; Jules and Jim, two young men in pre-First World War Paris, meet the girl of their dreams; Icarus discovers that he can fly; Faust is given access by the devil to all sorts of magical experiences. But gradually the mood of the story darkens. The hero experiences an increasing sense of frustration. There is something about the course he has chosen which makes it appear doomed, unable to resolve happily. More and more he runs into difficulty; everything goes wrong; until that original dream has turned into a nightmare. Finally, seemingly inexorably, the story works up to a climax of violent self-destruction. The dream ends in death.

So consistent was the pattern underlying each of these stories that it was possible to track it in a series of five identifiable stages: from the initial mood of anticipation, through a ‘dream stage’ when all seems to be going unbelievably well, to the ‘frustration stage’ when things begin to go mysteriously wrong, to the ‘nightmare stage’ where everything goes horrendously wrong, ending in that final moment of death and destruction. No sooner had I become aware of this pattern than many other well-known stories began to suggest themselves as following the same general shape. Not surprisingly, these included a good many dramatic and operatic tragedies, such as Romeo and Juliet or Carmen. They included myths and legends, such as that of Don Juan; novels, such as the dreams turned to nightmare of those two unhappy heroines, Emma Bovary and Anna Karenina, both ending in suicide; or films such as Bonnie and Clyde, describing the two young lovers who light-heartedly embark on a career as bank robbers and end up riddled with a hail of bullets. Again and again through the history of storytelling it was possible to see this same theme, of a hero or heroine being drawn into a course of action which leads initially to some kind of hectic gratification and dream-like success, but which then darkens inexorably to a climax of nightmare and destruction. And at this point two questions began to intrude.

Firstly, why was this so? Why has the imagination of storytellers seemed to form so readily and regularly round this theme? Why do we recognise it as such a satisfactory shape to a story?

Secondly, were there other patterns like this underlying stories, shaping them in quite different ways? After all, this cycle of self-destruction only describes a certain type of story, with an ‘unhappy ending’. What about all those stories which have ‘happy endings’? Were there any similar basic patterns underlying these too?

As soon as I began to look at stories in this light, a number of other possible basic plots began to suggest themselves. There were, for instance, all those stories about the overcoming of a ‘monster’, like Jaws or Beowulf, in which our interest centres on the threat posed by some monstrous figure of evil, who is then challenged by the hero and finally, after a climactic battle, killed. There were ‘rags to riches’ stories, like The Ugly Duckling or Cinderella, where our main interest lies in seeing some initially humble and disregarded little hero or heroine being raised up to a position of immense success and splendour. There were stories based on the theme of a great quest, like the Odyssey or The Lord of the Rings, where our interest centres on the hero’s long, difficult journey towards some distant, enormously important goal.

I embarked on an almost indiscriminate course of reading and re-reading, through hundreds of stories of all kinds (soon recognising how little most of us actually remember in detail even about stories we think we know quite well). And it was not long before I began to make a startling discovery. Not only did it indeed seem to be true that there were a number of basic themes or plots which continually recurred in the storytelling of mankind, shaping tales of very different types and from almost every age and culture. Even more surprising was the degree of detail to which these ‘basic plots’ seemed to shape the stories they had inspired; so that one might find, for instance, a well-known nineteenth-century novel constructed in almost exactly the same way as a Middle Eastern folk tale dating from 1200 years before; or a popular modern children’s story revealing remarkable hidden parallels with the structure of an epic poem composed in ancient Greece.

As one ‘basic plot’ after another emerged to view, each with its own particular structure, I eventually found myself with just one intractable pile of stories which did not seem to fit any of the patterns I had been looking at. I puzzled over them for some time. They seemed to be completely diverse: several were classic children’s stories, like Peter Rabbit, Peter Pan and Alice in Wonderland; there were a long list of novels, from Robinson Crusoe to Brideshead Revisited; there were science fiction stories, like H. G. Wells’s The Time Machine; there were films ranging from The Third Man and The Wizard of Oz to Gone With The Wind. Then the penny dropped that all these stories were in fact shaped by the same basic plot, one I had not even considered before (that which I have called ‘Voyage and Return’). And at this point I found myself brought up against the possibility which is the basis of this book. Although I had long been familiar with that old teasing notion that there are only a handful of basic plots to stories, I had never taken it any more seriously than most people. I was now having to accept that, to a remarkable extent, it might actually be true.

Of course I could already see that the truth was by no means as simple as those lighthearted references to a limited number of basic stories might imply. Obviously it was not true that every story fits neatly and with mechanical regularity into one or another category of plot: otherwise we should all have noticed the fact long ago, and stories would scarcely be the endlessly varied and fascinating things that they are. There are extensive areas of overlap between one type of plot and another. Indeed, there are many stories which are shaped by more than one ‘basic plot’ at a time (there are even a very small number, including The Lord of the Rings, which include all seven of the plots which give this book its title). There are still other stories which are shaped only by part of such a plot. Again there are others, a great many, which show the story somehow ‘going wrong’, in terms of failing fully to realise the basic plot which lies behind it. As we shall see, the question of how and why stories can go wrong in this way, usually leaving us, the audience, with a dissatisfied sense that something has somewhere gone adrift, provides some of the most significant clues of all as to how stories work and what they are really about.

But the further my investigation proceeded, the more clearly two things emerged. The first was that there are indeed a small number of plots which are so fundamental to the way we tell stories that it is virtually impossible for any storyteller ever entirely to break away from them.

The second was that, the more familiar we become with the nature of these shaping forms and forces lying beneath the surface of stories, pushing them into patterns and directions which are beyond the storyteller’s conscious control, the more we find that we are entering a realm to which recognition of the plots themselves proves only to have been the gateway. We are in fact uncovering nothing less than a kind of hidden, universal language: a nucleus of situations and figures which are the very stuff from which stories are made. And once we become acquainted with this symbolic language, and begin to catch something of its extraordinary significance, there is literally no story in the world which cannot then be seen in a new light: because we have come to the heart of what stories are about and why we tell them.

The perception that various basic themes and situations seem to recur through human storytelling is scarcely a new one. I shall end this introduction with a kind of technical note giving a brief background to how, over the past two centuries, a succession of writers, anthropologists, scholars and psychologists have approached this puzzle from many different angles, as they tried to explain why the same basic types of story should be found in the literature, folk tales and myths of different cultures all over the world.

Where this present book approaches storytelling in a quite different way from anything written on this subject before, however, is the extent to which it looks at all kinds of storytelling on the same level. We are not concerned here just with the well-known plays and novels of what is regarded as ‘serious’ literature. We shall be looking at every type of story imaginable: from the myths of ancient Mesopotamia and Greece to James Bond and Star Wars; from central European folk tales to E.T. and Close Encounters of the Third Kind; from P. G. Wodehouse to Proust; from the Marx Brothers to the Marquis de Sade and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre; from the Biblical story of Job to Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four; from the tragedies of Aeschylus to Sherlock Holmes; from the operas of Wagner to The Sound of Music; from Dante’s Divine Comedy to Four Weddings and a Funeral. This is because, when we penetrate to the root of what our impulse to imagine stories is really about, we see there is in fact no kind of story, however serious or however trivial, which does not ultimately spring from the same source: which is not shaped by the same archetypal rules and spun from the same universal language.

To arrive at the point where all this can be finally seen in proper perspective, however, it is necessary to travel on a long and complex journey. And before we embark I should set out a brief route-map, so that it will become clear how the different stages of that exploration build on each other in working towards the eventual goal.

This book is divided into four parts.

Part one, ‘The Seven Gateways To The Underworld’, examines each of the seven ‘basic plots’ in turn. At first sight, each is quite distinctive. But as we work through the sequence, we gradually come to see how they have certain key elements in common; and how each is in fact presenting its own particular view of the same central preoccupation which lies at the heart of storytelling.

Part two, ‘The Complete Happy Ending’, looks more generally at what all these main story-types have in common. In particular we find that there are not only basic plots to stories but a cast of basic figures who reappear through stories of all kinds, each with their own defining characteristics. As we explore the values which each of these archetypal figures represents, and how they are related, this opens up an entirely new perspective on the essential drama with which storytelling is ultimately concerned. But we also come to see how there are certain conditions which must be met before any story can come to a fully resolved ending. This leads on in Part three to an investigation of one of the most revealing of all the factors which govern the way stories take shape in the human mind.

The third part of the book, ‘Missing the Mark’, which concentrates almost entirely on stories from the last 200 years, explores how and why it is possible, in a storyteller’s imagination, for a story to ‘go wrong’; or, as we say, ‘lose the plot’. The first two parts of the book have been primarily concerned with those stories which express the archetypal patterns underlying them in a way which enables them to come to a fully resolved and satisfactory ending. In the third section of the book we see how, in the past two centuries, something extraordinary and highly significant has happened to storytelling in the western world. Not only do we look here at such an obvious question as why in recent times storytelling should have shown such a marked obsession with sex and violence. As we look at how each of the basic plots has developed what may be called its ‘dark’ and ‘sentimental’ versions, we see how a particular element of disintegration has crept into modern storytelling which distinguishes it from anything seen in history before. But this in turn merely reveals one of the most remarkable features of how stories take shape in the human imagination; because we also see how those archetypal rules which have governed storytelling since the dawn of history have in no way changed. In fact these ‘aberrant’ stories not only obey the same rules; they even in themselves provide all the clues to understanding what has gone amiss, and why they cannot come to fully satisfactory endings. They thus show us just how and why in the collective psyche of our culture this element of disintegration should have arisen.

This third part of the book ends with a chapter on what are arguably the two most centrally puzzling stories produced by the Western imagination, Sophocles’s Oedipus Tyrannos and Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Only at this point have we at last completed the groundwork which is necessary to looking at the deepest questions of all. Just why in the course of our biological evolution has our species developed the capacity to create these patterns of images in our heads? What real purpose does it serve? And how do stories relate to what we call ‘real life’?

These are the questions we look at in the fourth and final section of the book, ‘Why We Tell Stories’, which begins with two very significant types of story which we have not looked at before. This relates myths about the creation of the world and the ‘fall from innocence’ to the evolution of human consciousness and our relations with nature and instinct. In unravelling these riddles, what we see is how and why the hidden language of stories provides us with a picture of human nature and the inner dynamics of human behaviour which nothing else can present to us with such objective authority. We see how a proper understanding of why we tell stories sheds an extraordinary new light on almost every aspect of human existence: on our psychology; on morality; on the patterns of history and politics, and the nature of religion; on the underlying pattern and purpose of our individual lives.

The last two chapters, the longest in the book, attempt to use all we have learned about storytelling to reinterpret the psychological evolution of mankind since the dawn of civilisation. The first, ‘Of Gods And Men’, takes the story from the cave-paintings of Lascaux up to the French Revolution and the rise of Romanticism. The final chapter takes the story through the nineteenth and twentieth centuries up to the present day, ending with the film-version of The Lord of the Rings and the second Gulf War of 2003. The book then ends with a brief epilogue touching on one of the greatest stories ever written, Plato’s Parable of the Cave.

By the time we have reached this point in exploring the real reasons why we tell stories, I hope I shall have conveyed something of why there can be few more important mysteries left for humanity to unravel on this earth.

WHY DO SIMILAR STORIES APPEAR ALL OVER THE WORLD? A HISTORICAL NOTE ON PREVIOUS APPROACHES TO THIS QUESTION

The earliest instance which has come to light of an author observing that similar stories and situations may be found throughout literature appears in the late eighteenth century, in James Boswell’s biography of Dr Samuel Johnson. In one of those poignant references to projects which Johnson talked of during his life but never got round to completing, a friend recalled to Boswell how the great man had once mentioned his intention to write a book showing (in the words quoted at the beginning of this Prologue):

‘how small a quantity of REAL FICTION there is in the world; and that the same images, with very little variation, have served all the authors who have ever written.’

Dr Johnson was one of the best-read men of his age. He was familiar with virtually the whole of the surviving literature of classical times, not to mention most of the outstanding plays and novels written since the Renaissance (at least in English). It seems clear that his sharp and capacious mind had been so struck by the constant recurrence of certain images and situations in storytelling that he hoped one day to think about the matter more systematically. Alas, he leaves us with nothing more than this tantalising clue as to how far his observations might have taken him.

Another well-read near-contemporary of Johnson’s whose thoughts seem to have turned in the same direction was Goethe (1749-1832), who several times in his Conversations With Eckermann touches on the same question: most notably in the remark often quoted since:

‘Gozzi maintained that there can be but thirty-six dramatic situations; Schiller took great pains to find more, but was unable to find even as many as Gozzi.’²

Then, from quite another direction, in the second half of the nineteenth century, came the startling discovery by the growing army of anthropologists, ethnologists and students of folklore of the extent to which the same themes and motifs appeared through the myths and folktales of the entire world. It was not just that, as Sir James Frazer showed in The Golden Bough (1890), there were remarkable similarities in the central religious myths of different cultures, such as the idea of the god who dies and is reborn (as early as 1871 George Eliot’s Mr Casaubon in Middlemarch had been engaged on ‘a great work’ to show that ‘all the mythical systems or erratic mythical fragments in the world were corruptions of a tradition originally revealed’: again, we are not given the slightest clue as to why Casaubon might have come to such a notion). The really startling thing was that the assiduous collectors of folktales were now coming across versions of the same basic story cropping up from places culturally and geographically so far apart that it no longer seemed possible that such stories could have sprung from just one original source. It was one thing for variants of, say, the ‘Cinderella story’ to be found all over Europe, from Serbia to the Shetlands, from Russia to Spain; at least all these countries did share some common cultural and linguistic traditions. But when the same story was found, in different guises, in China, in Africa and among the North American Indians, it was clear that its ubiquity could no longer be explained simply in terms of cultural contact, or of a common historical source, however archaic.

So where did the stories come from? One response of many of these late-nineteenth century writers was to suggest that somehow all these stories, myths and legends were simply attempts to explain and to dramatise natural phenomena, familiar to all mankind. One popular theory, particularly associated with the philologist Friedrich Max Muller (1823–1900) was that stories of the god who dies and is reborn were ‘solar myths’, describing the setting and rising of the sun. It was suggested that the widespread folktales in which a heroine is eaten by a monster must have had something to do with the sun being ‘eaten’ by the moon in the course of an eclipse. Others held that the tales of ‘dragons’ and ‘monsters’ found all over the world originated in the discovery of dinosaur bones. But such theories were wholly inadequate to explain the astonishing universality, not just of the stories themselves, but often of the tiny details by which they were expressed – even though a more sophisticated version of these ‘metaphors for nature’ arguments has been advanced in more recent times by writers like the Canadian academic Northrop Frye, who attempted in his Anatomy of Criticism to relate the underlying forms of Tragedy and Comedy to the theme of ‘death and resurrection’ in the natural cycle of the year (Winter giving way to Spring, and so forth).

A second response, particularly popular among the experts on folklore themselves, has been to say in effect that there is simply no satisfactory, all-embracing explanation for the ubiquity of certain story-forms. Since Victorian times, the accumulation of parallels and links between the folk tales of hundreds of different cultures has turned into a major academic industry. Well over 1000 versions have been collected of the ‘Cinderella story’ alone. The ‘literature’, as scholars call it, now abounds in whole libraries – full of such items as ‘Three Hundred and Forty Five Variants of Cinderalla, Catskin and Cap O’Rushes, abstracted and tabulated, with discussion of Mediaeval Analogues and Notes’; or ‘Tom-Tit-Tot: A Comparative Essay on Aarne-Thompson Type 500 – The Name of the Helper’; or ‘A New Classification of the Fundamental Version of the Tar Baby Story on the basis of Two Hundred and Sixty Seven Versions’. Certainly the folklorists have established that the spreading of tales through cultural contact has been a far more complex process through history than might at first seem conceivable. Stories told to the Grimm brothers by German peasants in the early nineteenth century, for instance, have been traced back to Indian sources dating from well over a thousand years before, having entered Europe via trading routes or at the time of the Crusades, and been endlessly reworked by countless different storytellers in between. Stories collected in Africa and Asia in modern times as ‘indigenous folk tales’ have been traced back in turn to the Grimms, having been passed on by missionaries and dressed up in local clothing.

But one consequence of uncovering such complexities is that these busy collectors have been so overwhelmed by the Everest of material they have accumulated that they have finally despaired of finding any theory that actually might make sense of it all: that might discern a common ground in human psychology to account not just for the origin of the tales and their recurring features but also, just as important, for their continuing appeal through many generations to millions of outwardly quite different people, living in quite different cultural circumstances. In the words of Peter and Iona Opie:

‘Happily such all-embracing theories are now regarded with scepticism. It is no longer felt that any one theory is likely to account satisfactorily for even the majority of the tales. Their well-springs are certainly numerous ... their meanings – if ever they had meanings – are thought to be diverse. Each tale, it is now believed, should be studied separately.’³

The sigh of relief that one no longer has to think about such difficult matters is almost audible! However, the fundamental riddle remains.

A rather deeper approach to this whole problem in fact began to emerge more than a century ago when the German ethnologist Adolf Bastian (1826–1905) first put forward the theory that the human mind seems to be so constituted that it naturally works in certain forms or grooves, and round certain basic images. He accounted for the similarities he had discovered in the myths and folk tales of the primitive cultures he had studied by suggesting that such stories were based on what he called elementargedenken or ‘elemental ideas’, which somehow derive from the very nature of the human psyche, and which therefore all human beings have in common.

It was some years later that Sigmund Freud, in the 1890s, began to suggest that a great deal of human behaviour could be explained by the fact that enormous areas of our psychic activity lie in that part of the mind we call the unconscious, below the threshold of our conscious awareness. One of the most obvious ways in which we become aware of the existence of this is through our dreams, which spontaneously present to us sequences of pictures, like fragments of stories, without our being able to intervene consciously in controlling their contents in any way. And Freud was, of course, particularly struck by the parallels he observed between the contents of dreams and the themes of certain myths.

Perhaps in some way such myths were related to the very basis of the way we unconsciously perceive the world: to the inner patterns of our psychic development as individuals? Certainly the celebrated example of the ‘Oedipal triangle’, the perennial battle of the child to cope satisfactorily with the vast, overshadowing psychic presence of its parents, seemed to show a remarkable correspondence between an ancient myth and the experience of countless modern individuals whose problems seemed in large part to derive from this major hurdle on the road to establishing their own healthy, independent psychic identity. Perhaps all the other motifs of myth and folklore could be seen in the same Freudian light, as stories of ‘rapacious mothers’ (Hansel and Gretel), ‘castration fears’ (the sword which breaks) or the ‘escape from the womb’ (Jonah and the whale). After all, this was certainly relating stories to something universally experienced by mankind: our sexuality, our most fundamental human relationships, our memories of birth and fears of death. Over the past 100 years innumerable attempts have been made to interpret myths, folk tales and other stories in this way, from Ernest Jones’s essay analysing Hamlet as another example of the Oedipal triangle to Dr Bruno Bettelheim’s The Uses of Enchantment (1976) analysing the reasons for the appeal and value of the old fairy tales to the children of today.

But still, as a comprehensive explanation of stories, such an approach seemed far from adequate: even in many instances grotesquely limited. However universal and important our relations with our parents or our sexuality may be, this surely was not the whole explanation of the complex structure of myths and tales all over the world, in all their myriad guises? Was there not a yet deeper level at which the meaning of these tales might be found: not necessarily one which rejected the Freudian explanation in its entirety, but one which transcended it, reflecting something much deeper and more universal altogether?

When I first came to this subject through my initial researches into the basic plots underlying stories, I discovered that in the previous 70 years yet another, much more fundamental, approach to myths and folk tales had been emerging which corresponded more closely to what I had begun to recognise as the real nature of stories. So much does my own approach lie in this tradition, and so much did it help me to understand all sorts of things about stories more clearly, that I will not even attempt to summarise it here, since it is implicit in much of the book which follows, and at certain points, where appropriate, I hope I shall make that debt explicit.

Suffice it to say that this tradition has in many ways built on that first perception by Bastian, over a century ago, that the human imagination seems to be so constituted that it naturally works round certain ‘elemental’ shapes and images; and on the further insight of Freud and others that, for an explanation of a great deal of what is most significant in human behaviour we must look into those parts of the psyche of which we cannot be directly aware, because they are below the threshold of our immediate consciousness. But whereas Freud became preoccupied with just a part of the picture, with sexuality and with the problems of the individual psyche, his Swiss colleague Carl Jung moved on to the much wider question of how, at a deeper level, we are all psychologically constructed in the same essential way. We all, at that deeper level, have the same psychological makeup, in much the same way as we are all genetically ‘programmed’ to grow physically: and it is only on, as it were, the more superficial levels of our psyche that our individuality emerges, and that each of us finds our own individual problems in coping with the ‘programme’ of development that our deeper unconscious has laid down for us.

If we are looking for an explanation of why certain images, symbols and shaping forms recur in stories to an extent far greater than can be accounted for just by cultural transmission, we must look first to those deeper levels of the unconscious which we all have in common, as part of our basic genetic inheritance. These work around what Jung called ‘archetypes’: ‘the ancient river beds along which our psychic current naturally flows’; and it is only on this level of the archetypal structures that the basic meaning and purpose of the patterns underlying storytelling can be found.

Jung himself, of course, wrote much about myths and folk tales, as have many of his followers, such as Marie-Louise von Franz. Another author generally in the same tradition was the American Joseph Campbell who attempted in The Hero With a Thousand Faces and The Masks of God to relate an enormous amount of such storytelling to what he called ‘the monomyth’, a kind of universal story of which individual myths and tales merely present different aspects. Other authors have extended this kind of general approach to take in some of the better-known literary works of our culture, as did Northrop Frye in his Anatomy of Criticism and Leslie Fiedler in Love and Death In The American Novel, cited in the pages which follow. And I cannot conclude this brief summary of writers whose work I found illuminating without referring to an author much less well-known than any of these, John Vyvyan, whose little book The Shakespearean Ethic was not only an attempt to extend this kind of analysis to some of Shakespeare’s plays, but is also the most original book about Shakespeare I have ever read.

The crucial point of departure, however, widening out these approaches in a way which allows us at last to see the activity of telling stories from a wholly new perspective, is the recognition that all kinds of story, however profound or however trivial, ultimately spring from the same source, are shaped around the same basic patterns and are governed by the same hidden, universal rules.

At this point our journey can begin.

Part One

The Seven Gateways to the Underworld

‘When first we mean to build,

We first survey the plot, then draw the model.’

Henry IV Pt.2, I.iii

Prologue to Part One

Imagine we are about to be plunged into a story – any story in the world. A curtain rises on a stage. A cinema darkens. We turn to the first paragraph of a novel. A narrator utters the age-old formula ‘Once upon a time...’

On the face of it, so limitless is the human imagination and so boundless the realm at the storyteller’s command, we might think that literally anything could happen next.

But in fact there are certain things we can be pretty sure we know about our story even before it begins.

For a start, it is likely that the story will have a hero, or a heroine, or both: a central figure, or figures, on whose fate our interest in the story ultimately rests; someone with whom, as we say, we can identify.

We are introduced to our hero or heroine in an imaginary world. Briefly or at length, the general scene is set. The purpose of the formula ‘Once upon a time ...’, whether the storyteller uses it explicitly or not, is to take us out of our present place and time into that imaginary realm where the story is to unfold, and to introduce us to the central figure with whom we are to identify.

Then something happens: some event or encounter which precipitates the story’s action, giving it a focus. In fact the opening of the story is governed by a kind of double formula: ‘once upon a time there was such and such a person, living in such and such place ... then, one day, something happened’.

We are introduced to a little boy called Aladdin, who lives in a city in China ... then one day a Sorcerer arrives, and leads him out of the city to a mysterious underground cave. We meet a Scottish general, Macbeth, who has just won a great victory over his country’s enemies ... then, on his way home, he encounters the mysterious witches. We meet a girl called Alice, wondering how to amuse herself in the summer heat ... then suddenly she sees a White Rabbit running past, and vanishing down a mysterious hole. We see the great detective Sherlock Holmes sitting in his Baker Street lodgings ... then there is a knock at the door, and a visitor enters to present him with his next case.

This event or summons provides the ‘Call’ which will lead the hero or heroine out of their initial state into a series of adventures or experiences which, to a greater or lesser extent, will transform their lives.

The next thing of which we can be sure is that the action which the hero or heroine are being drawn into will involve conflict and uncertainty, because without some measure of both there cannot be a story. Where there is a hero there may also be a villain (on some occasions, indeed, the hero himself may be the villain). But even if the characters in the story are not necessarily contrasted in such black-and-white terms as ‘goodies’ and ‘baddies’, it is likely that some will be on the side of the hero or heroine, as friends and allies, while others will be out to oppose them.

Finally we shall sense that the impetus of the story is carrying it towards some kind of resolution. Every story which is complete, and not just a fragmentary string of episodes and impressions, must work up to a climax, where conflict and uncertainty are usually at their most extreme. This then leads to a resolution of all that has gone before, bringing the story to its ending. And here we see how every story, however mildly or emphatically, has in fact been leading its central figure or figures in one of two directions. Either they end, as we say, happily, with a sense of liberation, fulfilment and completion. Or they end unhappily, in some form of discomfiture, frustration or death.

To say that stories either have happy or unhappy endings may seem such a commonplace that one almost hesitates to utter it. But it has to be said, simply because it is the most important single thing to be observed about stories. Around that one fact, and around what is necessary to bring a story to one type of ending or the other, revolves the whole of their extraordinary significance in our lives.

One of the few general texts ever to have been written on stories was Aristotle’s Poetics, left unfinished well over 2000 years ago, It was Aristotle who first observed that a satisfactory story – a story which, as he put it, is a ‘whole’ – must have ‘a beginning, a middle and an end’. And it was Aristotle who, in the context of the two main types of stage play, first explicitly drew attention to the two kinds of ending a story may lead up to.

On the one hand, as he put it in the Poetics, there are tragic stories. These are stories in which the hero or heroine’s fortunes usually begin by rising, but eventually ‘turn down’ to disaster (the Greek word catastrophe means literally a ‘down stroke’, the downturn in the hero’s fortunes at the end of a tragedy). On the other hand, there are, in the broadest sense, comedies: stories in which things initially seem to become more and more complicated for the hero or heroine, until they are entangled in a complete knot, from which there seems no escape. But eventually comes what Aristotle calls the peripeteia or ‘reversal of fortune’. The knot is miraculously unravelled (from which we get the French word denouement, meaning literally an ‘unknotting’). Hero, heroine or both together are liberated; and we and all the world can rejoice.

This division holds good over a much greater range of stories than might be implied just by the terms ‘tragedy’ and ‘comedy’. Indeed, with qualifications, it remains true right across the domain of storytelling. The plot of a story is that which leads its hero or heroine either to a ‘catastrophe’ or an ‘unknotting’; either to frustration or to liberation; either to death or to a renewal of life. And it might be thought that there are almost as many ways of describing these downward and upward paths as there are individual stories in the world. Yet the more carefully we look at the vast range of stories thrown up by the human imagination through the ages, the more clearly we may discern that there are certain continually recurring general shapes to stories, dictating the nature of the road which the hero or heroine may take to their ultimate destination.

It is at the most important of these underlying shapes or ‘basic plots’ that we must now look.

Chapter 1

Overcoming the Monster

‘Legends of the slaughter of a destructive monster are to be found all over the world. The thought underlying them all is that the monster slain is preternatural and hostile to mankind.’

E. S. Hartland, The Legend of Perseus (1896)

In 1839 a young Englishman, Henry Austen Layard, set out to travel overland to Ceylon, the island now known as Sri Lanka. Halfway through his journey, when he was crossing the wild desert region then known as Mesopotamia, his curiosity was aroused by a series of mysterious mounds in the sand. He paused to investigate them, and thus began one of the most important investigations in the history of archaeology. For what Layard had stumbled on turned out to be the remains of one of the earliest cities ever built by humankind, biblical Niniveh.

Over the decades which followed, many fascinating discoveries were made at Niniveh, but none more so than a mass of clay tablets which came to light in 1853, covered in small wedge-shaped marks which were obviously some unknown form of writing. The task of deciphering this ‘cuneiform’ script was to take the best part of the next 20 years. But when in 1872 George Smith of the British Museum finally unveiled the results of his labours, the Victorian public was electrified. One sequence of the tablets contained fragments of a long epic poem, Dating back to the dawn of civilisation, it was by far the earliest written story in the world.

The first part of the Sumerian Epic of Gilgamesh, as we now know it, tells of how the kingdom of Uruk has fallen under the terrible shadow of a great and mysterious evil. The source of the threat is traced to a monstrous figure, Humbaba, who lives half across the world, at the heart of a remote forest. The hero, Gilgamesh, goes to the armourers who equip him with special weapons, a great bow and a mighty axe. He sets out on a long, hazardous journey to Humbaba’s distant lair, where he finally comes face to face with the monster. They enjoy a series of taunting exchanges, then embark on a titanic struggle. Against such supernatural powers, it seems Gilgamesh cannot possibly win. But finally, by a superhuman feat, he manages to kill his monstrous opponent. The shadowy threat has been lifted. Gilgamesh has saved his kingdom and can return home triumphant.

In the autumn of 1962, nearly 5000 years after the story of Gilgamesh was placed in the library at Niniveh, a period encompassing almost the whole of recorded human history, a fashionable crowd converged on Leicester Square in London for the premiere of a new film. Dr No was the first of what was to become, over the next 40 years, the most popular series of films ever made (even by 1980 it was estimated that one or more of the screen adventures of James Bond had been seen by some 2 billion people, then nearly half the earth’s population). With their quintessentially late-twentieth century mixture of space-age gadgetry, violence and sex, anything more remote from the primitive world of those inhabitants of the first cities who conceived the religious myth of Gilgamesh might seem hard to imagine.

Yet consider the story which launched the series of Bond films that night in 1962. The Western world falls under the shadow of a great and mysterious evil. The source of the threat is traced to a monstrous figure, the mad and deformed scientist Dr No, who lives half across the world in an underground cavern on a remote island. The hero James Bond goes to the armourer who equips him with special weapons. He sets out on a long, hazardous journey to Dr No’s distant lair, where he finally comes face to face with the monster. They enjoy a series of taunting exchanges, then embark on a titanic struggle. Against such near-supernatural powers, it seems Bond cannot possibly win. But finally, by a superhuman feat, he manages to kill his monstrous opponent. The shadowy threat has been lifted. The Western world has been saved. Bond can return home triumphant.

Any story which can make such a leap across the whole of recorded human history must have some profound symbolic significance in the inner life of mankind. Certainly this is true of our first type of story, the plot which may be called ‘Overcoming the Monster’.

The realm of storytelling contains nothing stranger or more spectacular than this terrifying, life-threatening, seemingly all-powerful monster whom the hero must confront in a fight to the death.

We first usually encounter these extraordinary creations early in our lives, in the guises of the wolves, witches and giants of fairy tales. Little Red Riding Hood goes off into the great forest to visit her kindly grandmother, only to find that granny has been replaced by the wicked wolf, whose only desire is to eat Red Riding Hood. In the nick of time, a brave forester bursts in to kill the wolf with his axe, and the little heroine is saved. Hansel and Gretel are cruelly abandoned to die in the forest, where they meet the apparently kindly old woman who lives in a house made of gingerbread. But she turns out to be a wicked witch, whose only wish is to devour them. Just when all seems lost, they manage to push her into her own oven and burn her to death, finding, as their reward, a great treasure with which they can triumphantly return home. Jack climbs his magic beanstalk to discover at the top a new world, where he enters a mysterious castle belonging to a terrifying and bloodthirsty giant. After progressively enraging this monstrous figure by three successive visits, each time managing to steal a golden treasure, Jack finally arouses the giant to what seems like a fatal pursuit. Only in the nick of time does Jack manage to scramble down the beanstalk, and bring it crashing down with an axe. The giant falls dead to the ground, and Jack is left to enjoy the three priceless treasures he has won from its grasp.

The essence of the ‘Overcoming the Monster’ story is simple. Both we and the hero are made aware of the existence of some superhuman embodiment of evil power. This monster may take human form (e.g., a giant or a witch); the form of an animal (a wolf, a dragon, a shark); or a combination of both (the Minotaur, the Sphinx). It is always deadly, threatening destruction to those who cross its path or fall into its clutches. Often it is threatening an entire community or kingdom, even mankind and the world in general. But the monster often also has in its clutches some great prize, a priceless treasure or a beautiful ‘Princess’.

So powerful is the presence of this figure, so great the sense of threat which emanates from it, that the only thing which matters to us as we follow the story is that it should be killed and its dark power overthrown. Eventually the hero must confront the monster, often armed with some kind of ‘magic weapons’, and usually in or near its lair, which is likely to be in a cave, a forest, a castle, a lake, the sea, or some other deep and enclosed place. Battle is joined and it seems that, against such terrifying odds, the hero cannot possibly win. Indeed there is a moment when his destruction seems all but inevitable. But at the last moment, as the story reaches its climax, there is a dramatic reversal. The hero makes a ‘thrilling escape from death’ and the monster is slain. The hero’s reward is beyond price. He wins the treasure, or the hand of the ‘Princess’. He has liberated the world – community, kingdom, the human race – from the shadow of this threat to its survival. And in honour of his achievement, he may well go on to become some kind of ruler or king.

There have been few cultures in the world which have not produced some version of the Overcoming The Monster story. But a civilisation we particularly associate with such stories is that of the ancient Greeks, whose mythology was swarming with monsters of every kind, from the original Titans overcome by Zeus or the one-eyed giant Polyphemus blinded by Odysseus to the mighty Python strangled by Apollo or the riddle-posing Sphinx who threw herself over the cliff when Oedipus proved to be the first man who could correctly answer her riddle (for which he was chosen to be king over Thebes).

One of the most celebrated of the Greek monster-slaying heroes was Perseus, who had to overcome not one monster but two, one female, one male. When, as a young boy, he is cast adrift in the world with his beautiful mother, the Princess Danae, the two fall under the shadow of the cruel tyrant Acrisius, who demands that Danae should succumb to his advances. In a desperate bid to save his mother from this fate, young Perseus offers to perform any task the tyrant should set him. The cruel Acrisius therefore sends the boy off to the end of the world to obtain the head of the dreadful Gorgon Medusa, the mere sight of whose face is sufficient to turn a man to stone. Perseus is equipped by the gods with magic weapons, a pair of winged sandals, enabling him to fly, a ‘helmet of invisibility’ and a brilliantly polished shield, in which he will be able to see the Medusa’s reflection without having to look at her directly. ‘By remote and pathless ways’, as Ovid put it, Perseus reaches the Gorgons’ lair at the Western edge of the world, and severs the Medusa’s snake-covered head. It might seem that he has triumphantly concluded the task that has been set him; but we now learn that this was merely the essential preparation for a further immense task which awaits him on his journey home. As he flies back with his prize, he looks down to see a beautiful, weeping Princess, Andromeda, chained to a rock by the sea. She has been placed there as tribute to appease a fearsome sea-monster, which has been sent by Poseidon to ravage her father’s kingdom. Perseus sees the huge reptile rising out of the deeps to seize Andromeda and swoops down to engage it in battle. He is able to use the trophy of his first victory, the head of Medusa, to turn the monster to stone. He is rewarded with the hand of the Princess, for liberating her father’s kingdom from this awful threat. He returns home, where he uses the Medusa’s head to turn the tyrant Acrisius to stone, and eventually goes on to become king of Argos.

Another celebrated monster-slayer was Theseus, who also grows up alone in the world with his mother. On coming of age he goes to rejoin his father, King Aegeus in Athens, having to kill a series of monsters and villains on the way. But when he arrives he finds his father’s kingdom under a terrible shadow, cast by a rival kingdom across the sea in Crete, ruled over by the grim tyrant King Minos. Every ninth year the Athenians must pay a tribute to the tyrant, by sending the flower of their city’s youth to feed the frightful monster the Minotaur, half-bull, half-man (another creation of Poseidon), which lives at the heart of the mighty Labyrinth, a dark, enclosed stone maze from which no one has ever found a way out. Theseus volunteers to lead the party of young men and maidens who are to be sacrificed to this creature; and on arriving in Crete he wins the love and support of the tyrant’s daughter Ariadne, who secretly supplies him with the ‘magic aids’, a sword and a skein of thread, he needs to win victory. Finding his way to the centre of the Labyrinth, unravelling the thread, he confronts the Minotaur and kills it. Ariadne’s thread enables him to retrace his way back through the maze of tunnels to the open air. It is true that, when they then flee together back to Athens, Theseus abandons his Princess on the island of Naxos. And as he comes within sight of the mainland, and forgets to hoist a white rather than a black sail to show his father that he has returned victorious, King Aegeus throws himself in grief into the sea which ever afterwards bore his name. But this also means that, like many another monster-slaying hero, Theseus succeeds to the